The Wedding - By Nicholas Sparks Page 0,31

sprout between the bricks.”

She laughed. “Where did your parents meet?”

“Washington. They both grew up there, and they met when they both worked for the Department of Transportation. I guess they were in the same office for a while, but that’s all I know for sure. They never said much more than that.”

“Do they have any hobbies?”

I considered her question as I pictured both my parents. “My mom likes to write letters to the editor of The Washington Post,” I said. “I think she wants to change the world. She’s always taking the side of the downtrodden, and of course, she’s never short of ideas to make the world a better place. She must write at least a letter a week. Not all of them get printed, but she cuts out the ones that do and posts them in a scrapbook. And my dad . . . he’s on the quiet side. He likes to build ships in bottles. He must have made hundreds over the years, and when we ran out of space on the shelves, he started donating them to schools to display in the libraries. Kids love them.”

“Do you do that, too?”

“No. That’s my dad’s escape. He wasn’t all that interested in teaching me how to do it, since he thought I should have my own hobby. But I could watch him work, as long as I didn’t touch anything.”

“That’s sad.”

“It didn’t bother me,” I countered. “I never knew any different, and it was interesting. Quiet, but interesting. He didn’t talk much as he worked, but it was nice spending time with him.”

“Did he play catch with you? Or go bike riding?”

“No. He wasn’t much of an outdoor guy. Just the ships. It taught me a lot about patience.”

She lowered her gaze, watching her steps as she walked, and I knew she was comparing it to her own upbringing.

“And you’re an only child?” she continued.

Though I’d never told anyone else, I found myself wanting to tell her why. Even then, I wanted her to know me, to know everything about me. “My mom couldn’t have any more kids. She had some sort of hemorrhage when I was born, and it was just too risky after that.”

She frowned. “I’m sorry.”

“I think she was, too.”

By that point, we’d reached the main chapel on campus, and Jane and I paused for a moment to admire the architecture.

“That’s the most you’ve ever told me about yourself in one stretch,” she remarked.

“It’s probably more than I’ve told anyone.”

From the corner of my eye, I saw her tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. “I think I understand you a little better now,” she said.

I hesitated. “Is that a good thing?”

Instead of answering, Jane turned toward me and I suddenly realized that I already knew the answer.

I suppose I should remember exactly how it happened, but to be honest, the following moments are lost to me. In one instant, I reached for her hand, and in the next, I found myself pulling her gently toward me. She looked faintly startled, but when she saw my face moving toward hers, she closed her eyes, accepting what I was about to do. She leaned in, and as her lips touched mine, I knew that I would remember our first kiss forever.

Listening to Jane as she spoke on the phone with Leslie, I thought she sounded a lot like the girl who’d walked by my side on campus that day. Her voice was animated and the words flowed freely; I heard her laughing as if Leslie were in the room.

I sat on the couch half a room away, listening with half an ear. Jane and I used to walk and talk for hours, but now there were others who seemed to have taken my place. With the children, Jane was never at a loss as to what to say, nor did she struggle when she visited her father. Her circle of friends is quite large, and she visited easily with them as well. I wondered what they would think if they spent a typical evening with us.

Were we the only couple with this problem? Or was it common in all long marriages, an inevitable function of time? Logic seemed to infer it was the latter, yet it nonetheless pained me to realize that her levity would be gone the moment she hung up the phone. Instead of easy banter, we’d speak in platitudes and the magic would be gone, and I couldn’t bear another discussion of